Data ki nagri mein khoon behta raha...

Lahore, Pakistan. 02/07/2010:I have no sixth sense, and am grateful for the five that work. But on the 2nd of July 2010, I felt a familiar yet distant tension and insecurity in the air. As I tweaked the last bobs and bits of the newspaper I used to work for, the layout incharge, like a morgue attendant, informed me, with a worried look on his face, that Data Darbar had been bombed. Utter disbelief.The shrine of the patron saint of the subcontinent, Ali Hajveri Data Ganj Baksh, known as Data Darbar, since the last one millennium had been bombed? A place that embraced everyone, regardless of religion, caste or creed. A place that fed thousands of people everyday, bombed?We predicted angry mobs on the streets, but the people of Lahore, in utter disbelief and shock chose to remain at home, as sirens of all sorts blared through the canal.As I drove back home, I turned back midway, towards the Data Darbar. I couldn’t believe how someone could’ve attacked the place. I had to see it to believe it.The streets were empty as I raced towards Data Darbar. Lahore was indeed shaken, stirred and shattered. The resulting impact was clearly printed on the faces of Lahoris. I parked my car outside the shrine's complex. A stream of ambulances were neatly lined along the pavement, waiting for orders. One had to admire rescue 1122 and civil defence workers for their bravery. Within 15-20 minutes, they were on the site, effortlessly sifting through the rubble, rummaging for remains.While walking past the security barrier, a ranger frisked me, despite seeing my press card and bulky DSLR, and pushed me back. He whispered in my ear, "Sir, it's terrible inside, don't go, you won't be able to see it" I reassured him, walking through the sidelines and into the complex. Pandemonium The entire place smelt like a meatshop, as body parts lay scattered on the ground. It was hard to walk as my shoes would often get glued to the ground. No, it wasn't chewing gum, it was blood from the dead bodies of atleast 200 dead people I saw scattered across the complex. Blood had stained the marble floor, an ugly layer that would take weeks to clean, and many generations to forget.A barrage of Solid Waste Management (SWM) employees were seen collecting broken watches and burnt cellphones to identify the dead ones. They called out to each other, “Send this to the morgue, it could help the forensics...” Like jigsaw puzzles, they searched for whatever little remains they could find; to solve a puzzle no one knew had a solution toThe shrine complex housed different buildings, including the central shine, while other structures were built on the edges. There was relatively lesser structural damage, as the central courtyard contained space for nothing else but people. The lungar malfunctioned for the first time in history, as it was located in the basement where a large staff cooked cauldrons of rice and vegetables.Journalists on the spot carefully reported a lower death toll to the millions glued to their news channels. From the blast site, it was evident that hundreds must have lost their lives. Lahore's violent and explosive past had trained the rescue agencies well. Barely a month ago, they were rescuing people from an attack on an Ahmaddiya mosque.No wonder Mayo Hospital now has a special wing called 'Dead house', dedicated to those who are brought in, right after bomb blasts. That day it was no different. The usual 40-50,000 people settled themselves at the complex, unaware of the impending doom. The ill-fated mass of people drowned into a massive blood bath as a string of suicide attacks struck different parts of the complex. Initial reports suggested the use of crackers/low intensity bombs, but as survivors ran for their lives, leaving behind victims, it was clear that it was indeed a high grade bomb. Honestly, Data Darbar was the last place one could think of being attacked, but considering the fact that these terrorists wanted to cause maximum damage, using a carefully orchestrated attack strategy, it came as no surprise. The Darbar is not the usual sufi shrine, while it does have its qawalli sessions, but otherwise, one won't find the typical medieval men tranced in mystic rituals. Nor the typical dhamali dholwallas, who are only seen outside the complex. It is instead a place where recitations of the Holy Quran are held, where clerics from all sects of Islam deliver sermons and participate in religious discussion.The usual flow of condemnation and strikes would follow. In the 3 day strike, traders would report a loss of 3 billion rupees. The CCTV footage clearly showed how the suicide bombers penetrated the security gates. As I exited through the same security gates, I imagined how, barely an hour ago, two-three men wrecked the future of atleast two hundred families. The rescue 1122 officials are trained to rescue, but there is no psychological counselling for them or the survivors. I am no psychologist, but it is pretty evident that we are a nation governed by fear. Fear of the terrorists, fear of the police and fear of the army. At such bomb sites too, fear is written on the faces of all those present.Instead of handing over all aid to the men in khakis, we should have strengthened our Police. They lose men everyday, police stations are attacked everyday. The Lahore GPO blast is a sad reminder of how terrorists openly target the police. Again, there is no trauma control for the police in such a restive and volatile region like ours. Attacks on shrines have put an end to the colourful shrine culture in Pakistan, with peaceful shrines being guarded by chained high security barriers and strong restrictions on rituals.And then people want answers to the questions you cannot answer. As I walked towards my car, passerby’s with a barrage of queries surrounded me. "Sir, how many do you think are dead? They say 45, but we're sure they're more" I could've told them the 257 I had counted inside, but I confirmed the 45 they were told.The cacophony may have ended, but it has also silenced the dhols, ended the freedom and eroded the human spirit.

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